


For Want of a Cupboard

by JauntyHako



Series: Les Misérables Fake Relationships [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, a bet is made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JauntyHako/pseuds/JauntyHako
Summary: Enjolras says he is a good boyfriend. Grantaire is willing to bet money that he's not. Naturally, there is only one way to settle this.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Les Misérables Fake Relationships [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962487
Kudos: 78





	For Want of a Cupboard

They were arguing. Again.  
It seemed to Grantaire there had to have been a time when they weren't constantly at each other's throats. He wasn't insane, he had photographic evidence. Pictures of him and Enjolras, all but in each other's laps smiling sleepily at the lense of Courfeyrac's phone on movie night, of them sharing space, always in the group. But seven people couldn't possibly be the only thing keeping them from tearing each other apart.

“You can't seriously _live_ like this. Look at this-”, Enjolras made a sweeping gesture encompassing the entirety of Grantaire's flat, almost sending the book flying he'd meant to return. Grantaire looked around.  
“Don't see the problem,” he said, knowing it would rile Enjolras up more if he faked ignorance.  
“Because there's nothing _to_ see! What's that? Is that a bed or a carpet? You don't have a sofa, or a closet, or ... or anything. The walls are bare, there are _clean_ dishes on the _floor_.”  
“Would you prefer them dirty?”  
Enjolras glared at him as if he wanted to set him on fire. He was heaving, chest rising and falling like the bellows of a forge, hands reaching into thin air for something to wring, preferably Grantaire's neck. Only Enjolras could walk into a person's home and be so full of self-righteous anger he didn't even the register the level of rudeness at which he operated.   
“That. Is not. _Remotely_. The point.”  
The part of Grantaire that was always a little detached, watching the proceedings from outside even when the rest of him felt miserable, made idle plans to unleash Enjolras on unsuspecting people as the ultimate prank. To his credit, he did not say that out loud.   
Although the credit should really be subtracted from his scorecard right away, because what he did say was: “God, you'd make a terrible boyfriend.”  
For a second it looked like Grantaire might have succeeded stunning Enjolras into silence. In fact, now that he thought about it, it didn't seem like such a self-destructive, stupid thing to say. It was hilarious, actually.  
While Grantaire fell into a not altogether bad impression of Enjolras nagging at his poor potential lovers, Enjolras recovered from the shock to fire a volley in return.  
“Not that it's any of your business, but I'm a great boyfriend. Showing consideration for other people is part of-”  
“Prove it.”

This was stupid even for him. Half of Grantaire wanted to run for the hills. The rest of him stood rooted to the spot, defiant to the last. He jutted his chin out, daring Enjolras to rise to the challenge. Enjolras met his eye, lips pursed, arms crossed. They were caught in a stand-off, high noon and hands at their holsters, at five o'clock in Grantaire's admittedly pretty empty flat.  
“Fine.”  
Grantaire blinked.  
“What?”  
“I said, fine. I'll prove I'm a good boyfriend.”  
Enjolras dropped his defensive stance, looking as open and vulnerable as Grantaire had ever seen him. He felt like they might have a heart to heart now, bare their emotions, starting with the fact that Grantaire hadn't even known Enjolras wanted to be someone's boyfriend, even in the abstract. This was serious, open, honest. He backed the hell away from that.  
“What, like a bet?”  
Was it his imagination or did he see Enjolras deflate a little? He definitely avoided eye contact for a full second or two, which for Enjolras was tantamount to waving the white flag. A flag Grantaire wanted to be waving right about now. This was like a weird little fantasy his thirteen year old self would have cooked up, pining after the unattainable guy he'd been crushing on for literal years. It wasn't real. Things like that didn't happen.  
“Yes. Fine. Why not? We'll bet I'm a good boyfriend.” Then Enjolras lit up, brief reticence forgotten. “When I win you'll buy furniture. At least a bed, a closet, and a cupboard for your dishes.”  
“If you win I'll buy a cupboard,” Grantaire said. “I like my bed-”  
“Carpet.”  
“Carpet, fine. And I have a closet.”  
Enjolras narrowed his eyes, looking around as if he might somehow have missed a full sized piece of furniture just standing around.  
“Do you?”  
Grantaire nodded gravely.  
“I've been in it for seventeen years.”  
It drew a groan out of Enjolras that was altogether not unpleasant. It was at least better than the not-shouting he'd done before. And since he didn't know when to quit, he kept going: “And if I win, and you're a _terrible_ boyfriend, which you _are_ , you have to visit my friend Éponine's place and I get to film your honest reaction and put it online.”

Grantaire didn't honestly expect Enjolras to agree to the terms. He expected even less when Enjolras started hashing out the exact circumstances which would constitute a win or a loss. In lieu of questioning his life choices up until that point he went to his pantry (a battered old suitcase) and got out the instant coffee. He couldn't offer Enjolras a place to sit, but he sure could offer him coffee.  
“Obviously I can't rely on your opinion,” Enjolras said.  
“Obviously.”  
“We need an impartial judge. Like Combeferre-”  
“Not Combeferre,” Grantaire said. “He's your best friend.”   
And he'd been on Grantaire's case to buy furniture for months but that was neither here nor there.  
“Then Courfeyrac-”  
“Yeah, he's great.”  
Enjolras shook his head.  
“No, wait. He'll side with you just to make that video.”  
Enjolras was right, but Grantaire had hoped he wouldn't notice until it was too late. He took the cup Grantaire offered without sparing it a glance and took a sip without looking. Screw the reaction video, Grantaire could put whatever he wanted in front of Enjolras and he'd drink it.   
“All of our friends are going to side one way or the other because of which way they want the bet to go.”  
Enjolras nodded, sipped again at the coffee that Grantaire wished had been something like vinegar instead. Would he even have noticed? He was so deep in thought.  
“They can't know it's a bet, then.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“We have to prove to them that I'm a good boyfriend.”  
“And how do you propose we do that?”

Enjolras looked up at him as if he'd announced the second coming of Christ.  
“Propose,” he echoed.   
Grantaire took a physical step back, hands drawn up in defense.  
“I'm not marrying you.”  
“What?” Enjolras snapped irritated. “Of course not. Don't be daft. We pretend to be boyfriends.”  
This was a terrible idea.  
“That's a terrible idea.”  
“No, it's perfect. We pretend to be a couple and if our friends believe us that we're happy together, then I'm right and I win.”  
“And if we're at each other's throats like we always are ...”  
Against his will Grantaire considered the idea. It had merit. They wouldn't last twenty minutes without arguing and for once he'd be getting more out of it than vague notions of continued heartbreak.   
“Fine.”  
Enjolras looked startled, as if he hadn't truly expected Grantaire to say yes.  
“Fine,” he said and held his hand out to seal the deal with a handshake only to realise that he had the book still in it.  
“Oh, uh.”  
Grantaire stared down at it, feeling like it had been an eternity ago that Enjolras had knocked on his door to return the book he borrowed weeks ago.   
“Uh.”  
“I wanted to-”  
“Yeah, just put it, uh, over there. With the others.”  
Enjolras gently put the book down on a veritable jenga tower of books, before solving the ensuing awkward silence by leaving. 

Grantaire woke the next morning with the vague feeling of having forgotten something important. He thought about it as he brushed his teeth, twice just in case. He remembered what it was when he opened his fridge. He'd meant to go out and buy groceries before Enjolras had stormed in demanding they fake a relationship.   
Something like that, anyway.   
He bought a coffee and a chocolate croissant on his way to work while working on a plan to subtly sabotage their relationship and win the bet. He couldn't do it in the open, naturally. Enjolras would cry foul play and declare the bet void. And he did want that reaction video. Maybe he shouldn't have brushed his teeth?

Grantaire ended up taking a breath mint before heading for Courfeyrac's place that evening after work, because he was great at sabotaging even his sabotage attempts. Maybe, in a weird roundabout way this would actually work out for him. He stopped just before the door. No, he couldn't think like that. Crushing on Enjolras was a well-worn trope by now. He'd learned to deal with it, had learned to deal with the constant arguing, the distance that had come between them, the thought that it would probably better for him if he kept his distance, only that would mean losing most of his friends. He'd struck a certain balance, one he couldn't let this bet disturb.   
“You could have texted.”  
Grantaire jumped, but it was just Enjolras standing there as if he'd just walked out of a photoshoot. No, not really. Those were his vaseline-smeared camera lenses he pointed at Enjolras. Objectively, Enjolras looked like he hadn't slept for two or three days, and his coat fit badly, owing to his short and thin stature mixed with his adamant refusal to buy in the children's section. If they only were on better terms, Grantaire would offer to take his clothes in for him.   
As it was, the only thing he could say was: “Huh?”  
“If you wanted to go in together,” Enjolras elaborated. “To sell the ... ruse. I would have hurried.”  
“How sweet,” Grantaire said and almost didn't sound sarcastic. Enjolras' expression clouded, then lit up in a painfully fake way.   
“Let's do this,” he said, grinning like a shark. “Sweetheart.”  
They did it. They rode the lift up to Courfeyrac's flat up in silence but the second they stepped off, Enjolras linked their arms, close enough that Grantaire could feel him warm and steady against him and thought his heart might give out just a little before the night was over.   
It was almost worth it for Feuilly's expression.  
He opened the door, a bowl of dip in one hand, likely to keep it out of Bahorel's grabby hands, and had a greeting already in the works when he saw Enjolras and Grantaire, arm in arm, one of them trying very had to look besotted, the other trying very hard to keep his heart beating rhythmically.   
“You, uh ...” Feuilly stopped, looked at the floor. His lips moved as he tried to parse this recent development. Then he looked at them again. Shook his head.  
“Not even going to ask. Come in.”

They went in.   
“Let me take your coat,” Enjolras said at Grantaire's ear, too close for comfort. If he leaned forward, just a little, he could kiss him. But nobody was watching. Besides, it was Enjolras' job to make this believable. It was his to make it crash and burn as epically as he could.   
“Does that mean you want to be the man in this relationship?”  
Grantaire took both their coats while Enjolras went into a rant about gender roles in queer relationships, just like he knew he would. He was just about to say something snarky that would expose their relationship as fake before they'd even gone into Courfeyrac's one room, when said host came barrelling through the door - “You're shitting me, Enjolras has a” - coming to a halt just inches in front of them ...  
“Huh.”  
Courfeyrac stared first at Enjolras, then at Grantaire, then at Enjolras again. Then his bafflement made way for unrestrained delight.   
“Finally! You've been in love with him for years! I want to hear every detail.”  
And for the life of him, Grantaire couldn't figure out how Courfeyrac had known about his crush on Enjolras. 

They were herded into what Courfeyrac had grandiosely declared his living area in the too small one-room flat he rented, and made to recount the love story of the centuries.   
“It was a long time coming,” Enjolras said with a hilariously bad impression of someone in love. All he'd done was take Grantaire's hand in his, but the way he looked at him, the way he sounded, was exactly the same. No one would buy this charade. That didn't mean he wouldn't try to mess with him.   
“And he'd written all these love letters he was too chicken to send,” added Grantaire. Enjolras looked equal parts shocked and offended.  
“How did you – uh, I mean, yes, I did. Tell you about those. And you were very gracious about it-” Just a hint of warning. Grantaire ignored it as he was wont to do.  
“And I was about to leave the country, but ange chased me down at the airport, and he had these big signs, and he said we'd open a little bookshop together-”  
“ _None_ of that happened,” Enjolras hissed, the old fury back in force. Grantaire figured one, maybe two jokes to set him off for good. And then maybe he'd let go of his hand and it would stop tingling so much.   
“I get it, you don't remember, because it was all so stressful. But please, my love, think of our children-”  
“We _don't_ have children-”  
Their assembled friends watched the exchange like kittens following a piece of string.   
“Oh no, the heartbreak.” Grantaire held his hand over his forehead and swooned. “I knew you wouldn't remember all those first dates we had, but it still hurts-”  
“Will you stop with the bad romance films-”  
“It must be because you were hit by that car-”  
“Are you serious right now?”  
“And of course our parents were completely against the relationship so we had to make over the border in a hot air balloon-”  
“You are very difficult to love!”  
Grantaire had won. His heart ached as he braced himself for Enjolras to draw away, but he'd won. He put on his best _Gotcha_ face, a little too smug even for his own tastes but he wasn't going to tone it down now.  
Enjolras did the unthinkable. He leaned forward, into Grantaire's space rather than away from it and said, so soft that it would be hard for their friends to hear:  
“But I love you anyway.”  
Grantaire stared, disbelieving.  
“I love you, R. I wanted to tell you for so long, but even now I'm afraid you won't believe me. But I mean it, every word. I've loved you for years, and I'll love you as long as you let me. Even when you rile me up, even when you try your hardest to be unlovable. It won't work on me, I promise.”  
It sounded like a threat, except for his tone of voice and general demeanour. Grantaire still chose to take it as one.  
“You must want that cupboard very badly,” he whispered. He couldn't interpret all the expressions that came over Enjolras' face then, but he made out a definite hint of disappointment. He'd probably thought Grantaire would chicken out by now. He held eye contact, put a deliberate bit of challenge in it. Enjolras wouldn't break it, seemed to want to open up his skull with the intensity of his glare.

Bahorel broke the silence.   
“Is this like foreplay to you guys?”  
All at once the tension broke. Enjolras leaned back and turned to their friends, although he did make a show of putting an arm around Grantaire's shoulders. Grantaire pushed it away, just to be contrary.   
“Don't ... oh no, was this foreplay the whole time?” Courfeyrac was all too glad to jump on that particular bandwagon. “Did we watch you do some weird sexual tension thing for years?”  
“We did,” Combeferre said, and was deigned with an _Et tu Brute_ look from Enjolras that he shrugged off. “But I'm glad you've finally had the guts to confess.”  
Grantaire frowned. Did _everyone_ know about his feelings?

The group settled around Enjolras as usual, letting him set the tone. Even in casual conversation Enjolras was the one who steered the ship, taking over so effortlessly as to make one wonder how they'd ever had a conversation without him in it. He wasn't even talking that much, overseeing more than overwhelming the conversation. Which had turned to the eternally recurring argument in their little group.  
“It's dangerous! Children get brain trauma from it, is that really something you want to endorse?”  
Bahorel threw his hands up in a Not-this-again gesture.  
“Not all sports give kids brain damage.”   
Grantaire added: “And those paint fumes will rot your brain just as fast.”  
Jehan made a sound like a proper old lady having just seen a not very handsome streaker go by. He reached out blindly and found Combeferre's sleeve, tugging at it for assistance.  
“That's what good ventilation is for,” he said to insistent nodding from Jehan. “Art creates, sports just ... is. It's mind-numbing.”  
Combeferre grinned as he said it. As fiery as this discussion would get, the whole thing was had in good fun. No one was trying that hard to win. But still, Grantaire and Bahorel were sorely in the minority every time they had it and Grantaire wanted to win, just once.   
“Most sports have some kind of strategic element. I'd hardly call that mind-numbing.”  
Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras. So did everyone else. His shoulder brushed Grantaire's as he shrugged.  
“You never argue for our side,” Grantaire accused.  
“Of course I'm on my boyfriend's side,” Enjolras said to a general chorus of 'aww's and 'you guys ...'. He basked in it like it was applause, while to Grantaire it sounded like the sharp reminder that all of this was a performance. One he intended to ruin, for his own sanity if nothing else.  
“Strategies can be memorised. Any monkey can do it. With art you need thoughts of your own.”  
He'd pay for that later, likely in the form of a Bahorel patented headlock for switching sides, but for now it was worth it to see Enjolras groaning and burying his head in his hands.  
He thought he could hear him mutter “unbelievable ...” under his breath and chose to take it as a sign of early victory.

Thirty minutes later Grantaire had temporarily ceased to sabotage his fake relationship with Enjolras in favour of watching him get high. He himself was in the process of developing a pleasant mix of various influences, listening with one ear to Jehan argue about art as an expression of individuality versus the inability to truly be individual with Combeferre. Enjolras had closed his eyes in bliss, savouring the smoke before breathing it out with an expression that had Grantaire half hard just watching.   
“Any aspect of one's self has been created from an outside influence,” Combeferre was saying, in that deep sonorous tone that had people listen to him even if they didn't know what in the world he was on about. “Individuality comes from the combination of those aspects, the sum of its parts if you will. Poetry can never express more than an aspect of-”  
Grantaire missed the rest of that sentence. And the rest of that discussion, because Enjolras, smiling and relaxed took another hit and leaned over to Grantaire. He was just in the process of commenting on the unwritten law of passing on a blunt after you took a hit, when Enjolras, fully inside his space now, close enough to count his eyelashes and still smiling that damn smile, made clear he fully intended to share.  
His lips touched Grantaire's featherlight, an unspoken question that Grantaire answered with a helpless gasp. He felt lip balm, and soft skin under his fingertips when he reached out almost in reflex, trying to hold onto something approximating reality. And then he was breathing in smoke, feeling lightheaded over everything but that, breathing, breathing because the alternative was to accept Enjolras was kissing him and that would have meant his death. The part of him that always stood on the outside looking in grasped desperately for some way to use this to his advantage, incorporate it into his plan to sabotage this and win the bet. The part that was being shotgun kissed by Enjolras told it to shut up. The bet was lost, he had fallen for good, the world was ending and born again in Enjolras' hooded eyes as he pulled back, between them nothing but the smoke Grantaire breathed out.   
He touched his lips in wide-eyed wonder, smelled a hint of that lip balm Enjolras must have put on. Why? Had he planned this the whole time, just waiting for the right moment? His timing could not be disputed. Grantaire had been there when they made that bet and even he wasn't sure Enjolras didn't love him. He was still so close, almost touching, but that look on his face had turned from seductive to apprehensive.  
“Was that okay? I didn't ask, I'm sorry, I should have-”  
“You are a great boyfriend,” Grantaire said. He listened to his own voice. Still calm. No sign of that storm brewing in his head about to let everything come crashing down. “I'll buy that cupboard. Next paycheck. Promise.”  
“That easy? What's the catch?” Enjolras reached out for him. Grantaire drew back, a little too fast. Thunder roared distantly in his mind.   
“No catch. But I have to go now. I have to ... go.”  
He got up before he'd finished speaking, stumbled backwards when Enjolras made again to hold him here. Enjolras said something else, he heard himself answering but even then he had no idea what he'd said. 

That storm that had started gathering the second Enjolras had kissed him broke down in force. He sprinted down the stairs, terrified someone would follow him, hearing steps echoing and telling himself they were just his own. He tore the front door open with enough force to almost scare the old lady about to come in to death and couldn't remember if he'd apologised before he was on the street, muscle memory carrying him on his way home while his brain drowned and burned all at the same time.

He arrived home to Enjolras standing at his front door. He slowed down, looked behind him, ahead of him. Enjolras couldn't have overtaken him.  
“Bahorel gave me a ride,” Enjolras answered his unspoken question. He did look the part, ashen around the nose, his hair flat from a motorcycle helmet. He hated riding on Bahorel's motorcycle. Grantaire wondered what he'd done to deserve this kind of determination.  
“Great,” he said, fishing for his keys. “That's great. I can't ... not right now.”  
Key in lock, turn the key, push open the door. He focused on getting inside, head lowered, jaw clenched and very careful not to swallow too heavily. He had to remain calm, get away from Enjolras, and fall apart. In that order.   
“Grantaire, listen-”  
“No right now, Enj. I'm sorry you came all this way, but I need ...”  
He waved at the imaginary heap of things he needed. Time alone, his mind to clear up, Enjolras to be gone, Enjolras to be here, for him not to have agreed to this stupid, stupid bet.  
“At least let me apologise. Then I'll leave.”  
Grantaire stopped in the entrance way, hand clutched around his bag. He grit his teeth.  
“Fine.”  
Enjolras shoes came into view, then a hint of his trouser legs. Grantaire kept his eyes there, holding hard onto the thin fraying ropes of his composure.  
“I'm sorry for kissing you.”  
“I bet you are.”  
“What?”  
“Nothing.”  
Enjolras hesitated, pushed his weight from one foot to the other. He'd never seen him so unsure of himself. He wanted to ease his mind, make it better somehow. But their bet was over, and the real Enjolras wouldn't appreciate him reaching out.   
“I made you uncomfortable with my behaviour and I realise now that I should never have agreed to this bet. It was stupid of me to think I could somehow persuade you to fall in love with me.”  
The predestined course of this conversation unraveled. On a very small list of things Grantaire expected Enjolras to say, this was not on it. Enjolras didn't give him time to try and understand.  
“I thought that all I needed was for you to give me a chance. I've been in love with you for so long, it made sense. Like all that stood in our way was some silly arguing. But you're not attracted to me, and I should never have forced my feelings on you like that. It won't happen again, and I promise you don't have to worry about me pushing myself on you again.”  
Grantaire blinked, searched for something to say and came up with nothing. Some emergency gate had shut, putting his brain in quarantine, letting nothing in and nothing out.   
“Oh,” he managed after a while. “Okay.”  
He left Enjolras on the sidewalk.

The next morning came with the headache of bad sleep and the events of the night before trickling into his brain. Grantaire, feeling marginally more like a sentient person, stared at the ceiling, wondering which parts of the evening had been real and which he'd dreamed. Enjolras racing after him on a motorcycle he was deathly afraid of being on to confess his secret love had to have been a product of his imagination, right?  
Right.  
Grantaire managed all the way through breakfast and a shower before he cracked. The way to Enjolras' was longer than he remembered, full of frustrating speedbumps and delays that threatened to destroy the little courage he'd built.   
Thus, when Enjolras opened the door to him, still in his sleepwear and with hair looking like he'd spent hours messing it up, he didn't hold them up with greetings.  
“Are you really in love with me?”  
Enjolras stared blankly. His eyes were red-rimmed as if he'd been crying. Grantaire bit his cheeks, swore to make it up somehow even if last night had turned out to be nothing but a weird dream.   
“It's eight o'clock in the morning,” he said slowly, as if that explained everything.  
“I know. Are you?”  
“Am I what?”  
“In love with me.”  
Enjolras hesitated. Grantaire knew the sign of someone trying to let him down easy. He braced himself for it.  
“Yes.”  
And like a man trying to kick down an open door, he fell.  
“Yes?”  
“Yes. I told you yesterday, I'm sor-”  
He didn't let Enjolras speak. He kissed him with the desperation of a dying man, tried to put everything into this one kiss so he wouldn't have to explain himself. But of course, when he let go Enjolras' didn't look enlightened by understanding. So, stuttering, halting and forcing himself not to turn this into a joke, he explained himself. Let Enjolras lead him into his flat, while he confessed to his own feelings, what last night had done to him, how he'd been prepared to treasure those few hours for the rest of his life and then Enjolras following him home and breaking the carefully built world he had made for himself, in which his love was one-sided but bearable.

When he was done he had a cup of coffee in front of him and Enjolras next to him looking like he had just been handed a winning lottery ticket.  
“Oh,” he said smugly enough that Grantaire knew what was coming the instant he opened his mouth. “Okay.”  
Then he laughed, bright and relieved, and hit Grantaire with a decorative pillow.  
“You bastard! Do you know what you did to me with that?”  
Grantaire yelped, hands up to protect himself from the onslaught, laughing helplessly.  
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! You try to deal with your crush just up and confessing to you!”  
Grantaire fell back, Enjolras followed.  
“I am dealing with it right now.”  
And then he was on top of Grantaire, who reflexively put his hands around Enjolras' waist and stared up, a little bit disbelieving still.   
“You are, aren't you?” he said, reaching up to push a lock of hair out of Enjolras' face, astonished that he was allowed.  
“I am,” Enjolras said and kissed him again.


End file.
